It was Christmas of 1983 when my dad got up early and started the small block 400 1977 Chevy Blazer. It had dual glass pack exhaust and had a rumble to it that could be heard throughout the house. Mom's sun catchers that hung in many widows were rattling and it always seemed that house just liked to absorb every ounce of the machines noise and spit it back at you. It was a cold gray morning and unknown to me, dad had used the Blazer as a visual and noise shield to move my big present in the drive way. Later that morning I opened a small box, with 2 excited parents, that revealed a key to the present outside. I didn't know much about cars at the time but that all changed that day.
In the drive way sat a tan colored 1967 F100 300 cid straight 6 with 3 on the tree. It was a short bed and even though I had seen it parked on the neighbors drive for a week, it was a pretty unremarkable pick up until now. Now it was mine! Most important to my Dad was that it was a 1967 model, the year I was born. The second most important thing to my Dad was the fact it was a standard transmission.
So we bundled up against the cold gray out side and went to the High School parking lot (which looked like a former landing strip). I climbed up behind the steering wheel and started it up. Dad briefly explained how to put it in first and ease out on the clutch and roll forward. Stutter stop. Neutral, Start the engine, stutter stop. We repeated this ritual 3 times. Then I turn to my Dad and asked. "How does it work?" He tried explaining how to ease out on the clutch and give it gas at the same time (for the forth time). I interrupted him and asked again. "How does it WORK?" He glared at me and then explained how a clutch plate and pressure plate work. One spinning, one not and the objected was to get one "not" moving. I said "ok" and took off across the parking lot shifting gears, stopped at the stop sign and drove around neighborhood for a bout 20 minutes while Dad didn't speak a word. He was unusually quiet as we pulled up into the driveway. We went in the house and Dad walked to the phone, Dialed a number. He said "Merry Christmas" without any excitement and said "Here, speak to your grandson". Granny was on the phone and asked me how I liked my new present. She then asked if I could drive it yet and I said yes. Then she said "what?! It took your Dad over two weeks to figure that out, how fast did you figure it out?!" "About 10 minutes" I replied.
So it's not a Camero, Mustang, or a new model car, or something that was cool. It was a simple nuts and bolts truck that could get me from point A to B. It needed some work and the first order of business was to solve the rattling lifters and Dad knew how to do it. Right out in the street in front of the house. That is where I had my first look at an engine with a wrench in my hand.
The truck had about 90 K on it and the motor was smoking pretty good. About the fall of 1984 Dad acquired a 1971 Ford short bed pretty much like mine but is had a 302 V8 in it. Green, and badly wrecked on the passenger front side but all the parts for an engine swap. I got the motor out and with the help of a friend thought my genius self was about to rebuild and engine, right there in the west Texas dirt. It wasn't to be so. I broke a piston and ended up in one of Dad's grand schemes.
CD Gram was his name and he had an engine shop in Fort Stockton. The parts were stacked 15' plus and paths though the place were so narrow that it made the small place easy to get lost in.
I will add more to the middle of this story as time goes on, but for now I will jump 29 years forward so that family and friends can see the progress being made.
